


Traitor

by Tobiyond



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gore, cannibalism mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7599133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tobiyond/pseuds/Tobiyond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junkrat is hungry and he's tired of being betrayed. Also known as how he became ambidextrous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traitor

Not again. Not tonight.

Jamison gritted his teeth together, staring angrily down at the arm that was determined to betray him. Every muscle was tense, flexing with no input needed. He tried wrapping his other hand tightly around the bicep to restrict it, but to no success. All that did was give his skin a strange, disjointed feeling as if the limb didn’t actually belong on his body. Maybe that’s why it was misbehaving. A frustrated grumble rose up from his chest and pierced the silence. He didn’t have time for this. In three minutes, the best chance he had at getting food for the next few days was going to be passing through this very spot and he needed to be alert. 

As if on cue, he heard the back door of the small bar open. The delivery man was an unassuming fellow, all legs and ratty brown hair with a bandana pulled up over his mouth. Every day for the past week or so, Jamie sat up on the nearest building, well out of view from any Junkers passing by, just so he could watch the man’s path, learn his schedule. He always had some sort of supply with him, but this was what the starving man had been waiting for. A slab of meat was good payment for a few bottles of non irradiated alcohol when the bar owner knew she could turn around and sell those bottles for far more than they were worth.

He could already feel the drool forming in his mouth as he caught the slightest whiff of actual food. Not lizard or the hock of an unfortunate, radiated dingo, but something that you were actually supposed to eat. He wanted it. With all the preparation he’d gone through and the waiting he’d endured, he deserved it. With his mind elsewhere, his twitching fingers shifted on the trigger of his grenade launcher, making a loud enough jangle to catch the other Junker’s attention. His arms tightened around Jamie’s prize, holding it close to his chest as he wildly scanned the area. The blonde swore quietly as he flipped open his detonator and swung down from the roof. The element of surprise might have been compromised, but he could still do this.

The mine under his feet went off just as planned, launching him forward and slamming his body into that of his victim. They went tumbling across the sand, a ball of angry curses and hissing. Jamie’s hand was in the middle of closing around the slab of meat, ready to kick his way off and get out of there when a sharp pain assaulted his sense. Dark orange eyes slowly drifted down to see the machete lodged in his side, firmly gripped in the startled man’s hand. Of course he was armed. Why wouldn’t he have been? As he stumbled back away from the would-be victim, Jamie remembered that he was supposed to watch the guy for a few minutes, get an idea for how well armed he was before jumping him. But he didn’t. He didn’t wait. He couldn’t because of. . .the arm holding his launcher spasmed again nearly shaking it from his grasp. 

Thankfully, the man still sprawled on the ground had more than enough excitement for one night and decided to leave the obviously confused and injured Junker to his thoughts. Gripping Jamie’s dinner tightly in his arms, he scrambled to his feet and ran past him, disappearing in the sand as it kicked back up. Jamison tried to tell himself that the robbery could’ve gone much worse, could’ve ended in his death in a million different ways. He could’ve gone back into the bar, called for help and gotten it from people who were dependant on his deliveries for their livelihood. In his current state, no amount of scrappiness would’ve protected him. The man could’ve chosen to wrench the machete out and bring it down again. The still stunned Junker was never any good with melee.

A pang rumbled its way through his stomach, echoing off the pain slowly seeping back into his nerves as blood ran freely down his side. Right. He had been stabbed. He needed to deal with that first. 

The trudge back to his hideout seemed to take forever, slowly moving to avoid drawing attention to himself or drawing any unnecessary blood from the wound. He fought the urge to sigh as the lean to finally came into view. Stacked behind a pile of tires and covered with what was once a sheet, the shelter certainly wasn’t glamorous, but Jamie had never been happier to see it. As soon as the “curtains” closed behind him, the man let out a strangled sob he didn’t realize he’d been holding back. Sinking to his knees, he fought to get his breathing under control. This was fine. He was fine. If he had dealt with losing his leg, he could deal with this. A shaking hand lifted to touch the rough handle of the machete, testing a small movement while his free hand quickly rose to his mouth the smother the cry that followed. Slow and steady wouldn’t cut it. A strip of leather from an old boot made a good gag, shoved into his mouth as he took a deep breath through his nose.

He could do this.

In one fluid motion, he gripped the handle of the weapon and wrenched it from his body, biting down so hard that he felt his teeth clack even through the leather. Okay. Okay. Breathe in. Breathe out. Once he was able to get a good look at the wound, he realized it was hardly life threatening. It could probably use stitches, but hell if he was about to go down that road again. Bandages would have to do. Still shaking, he let out a sigh of relief and picked up the filthy fabric laid out in the corner of his shelter. He’d dealt with much worse. This was nothing. As often as he ended up injured lately, wrapping up the wound didn’t take any time and he was happy to admire his work for the moment.

Then it hit him. Starting low in his stomach, the pang of hunger overtook his body until he was doubled over from the fresh stab of pain in his side. No. Nononono this wasn’t supposed to happen. He should be eating like a king right now. He’d put so much work into that plan, so much effort and caution and for what? Now he was still hungry and dealing with a fresh injury that would make any other attempts at gathering nearly impossible. It was all so perfect on paper. How could it have gone so wrong?

As if on cue, his right arm tightened, fingers curling in the dirt. Jamie’s eyes slowly drifted over the the offending limb. That was the problem. Shifting off of his knees to sit cross legged, he draped the twitching arm across his lap. He hated it. There was nothing wrong with the damn thing, he knew that much, it was just wild. It had a mind of its own and he was along for the ride. Constantly feeling like it was under pressure, distracting him when he needed to think, pulling the trigger of his gun and alerting his meal ticket to his presence. . .His left hand was clawing at the arm before he even realized it was happening. 

He shouldn’t be hungry. He did everything right. Why did it hate him so much? Why couldn’t his own body listen to him? Nails drug long lines of red down his skin, but even the pain felt muffled. The muscles responded to his assault, tensing even more than before and drawing a sharp cry of frustration from the Junker. This wasn’t fair. This arm wasn’t his and he was trapped with it. Trapped with it sabotaging his already fleeting attempts at survival. The nails on his left hand dragged their way up his stomach, toying with the bandages at the base of his chest. 

Trapped. . . Jamie hated feeling trapped, but there was nothing he could do. RIght?

A sudden spark in his mind caught him off guard. No. No, he wasn’t trapped. He could do something. Eyes lazily drifted to the machete he’d removed from his skin barely hours before. No one sabotaged Jamison Fawkes. No one. He knew enough to fix himself up with more strips of fabric, this time tied tightly around his bicep, just above where the worst of the tension was. How clever was he? If this invader, this traitor, wanted to play rough, he would return the favor. The remains of an old anvil made a wonderful display table for his punishment. Flat and sturdy and Jamie ignored the pain in his side as he tested knocking the sharp blade against the metal. It would hold. 

Laughter. It bubbled up inside of him and he was in no state to hold it back. Offending arm laid out across the metal, he cooed at it softly, explaining that this was only a matter of time. It should’ve just worked with him. They could’ve been partners, you know. He’d have to learn to write all over again. His fighting skills would be completely reset. Didn’t that mean anything? As if it was taunting him, the pressure increased painfully. That was all he needed to know.

Still laughing, he raised the machete above his head and brought it down as hard as he could. The pain was instant. Tears bit at the corner of his eyes and a fresh wave of nausea rolled over the man, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. The blade came down again and again, his laughter growing sparse between heaving sobs and frantic cursing. He wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop until the blade went all the way down to metal. Done.

It was done.

There was blood, so much blood everywhere he looked, but he’d done it. He’d shown that disgusting, useless traitor of a limb what happens when you cross Jam- no. When you cross Junkrat. He chuckled to himself at the name, eyeing the new stump with a childlike curiosity. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged that shock must be setting in and he really needed to get that bandaged up before he bled out. As much as he wanted to sit there and bask in his victory, it wouldn’t hold as much weight if he went and died now. 

His vision was swimming as he finished. The shock was wearing off and the pain was sinking back in. He was too tired. Too low on energy. Too hungry. Too hungry. A gleeful smile suddenly took over his face as he looked back to the flesh and bone still laid out across the anvil.

Well, would you look at that. Jamison Fawkes would get to eat tonight after all.


End file.
